


Coffee Shop AU//Stenbrough

by empiricallypossible



Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24429472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empiricallypossible/pseuds/empiricallypossible
Summary: It's literally a Coffee Shop AU I wrote at 3am
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 11
Kudos: 46





	Coffee Shop AU//Stenbrough

**_May 2020_ **

_ I am never going to finish this book _ Bill Denbrough thought as he drained his second coffee of the morning. He had brought his laptop to his local coffee shop, hoping that a change of scenery would give him the inspiration he needed to finish writing the book but all he had written so far was a single line. One he had erased and rewritten before erasing it again, at least five times already. 

“Same again?”

He tore his eyes away from the blank screen and looked up to find one of the baristas smiling at him as he collected Bill’s latest mug and wiped the table down with a washcloth he had tucked in to his apron. 

“I shouldn’t.” Bill began, but as he took another look at the cursor flickering in front of him he gave in, “but then that’s what a coffee shop is for, right? Coffee.” 

The barista, who’s nametag read  _ Mike _ in block capitals, smiled again, “Coming right up.”

Bill watched Mike walk back behind the counter before turning back to his work, still divinely uninspired and was debating cancelling his order, leaving the building and throwing his laptop under a bus, when somebody walked in through the door. 

The newcomer drew Bill’s wandering attention immediately, the light coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the shop’s front framing him perfectly. Bill’s inner artist itched to paint the sight before him. Or at the very least sketch it out on a napkin for later reference, but his absurd thoughts were interrupted by a returned Mike holding another triple shot espresso in his hands. 

“Careful, it’s hot.” Bill reluctantly dragged his attention away and thanked Mike as he took the coffee from him.

“Thanks.” He smiled, as Mike nodded once and returned to take the order of the customer waiting patiently at the counter, briefcase in one hand, while the other rested at his side. 

Bill was too far away to hear much of their conversation but from the easy way they interacted and the occasional laugh from Mike, he guessed the man was a regular and one Mike liked to see frequent the place. His clothes didn’t exactly scream of somebody who chose to frequent small coffee shops in town but then Bill knew this was probably his writer’s stereotyping coming in to play. Men with rich-brown curls in freshly pressed shirts could like coffee too. 

He hadn't realised he'd been watching them so intently until the man with the briefcase went to sit down, black coffee in hand, and Bill caught a glimpse of his side profile. High cheekbones, soft brown eyes, and those  _ curls _ falling over his forehead. He was reminded of his want to paint but wondered if he'd ever be able to do such a person justice.  _ I'm being ridiculous _ he thought suddenly,  _ it's all the coffee and deadline stress _ . 

He returned what lingering focus he had on trying to further his plot without killing any characters off.  _ If you can't further a plot without killing off any main characters every fifty pages or so, you shouldn't be a writer _ . It was advice someone had given him years ago, when he was a student writing for fun and  _ not _ massive deals with publishers that could make or break his fledgling career, but it was sound advice, so he had remembered it. 

He wrote all of three mediocre lines he was practically guaranteed to delete later, before he knocked back his cooled coffee and packed his laptop away, the idea of throwing it off his apartment building incredibly appealing.  _ It's just some writer's block.  _ He tried to reassure himself.  _ The deadline is in two weeks and you still have a good ten chapters to go. _

Dread was beginning to creep up on him, but he did his best to ignore it as he brought his mug back to the counter and paid Mike.

"See you around." He said as he headed for the door. As he passed the man he had been so struck by earlier, he had another wild thought of asking Mike who he was, what he did for a living, and if he came here often, but the word  _ stalker _ flashed in his mind and he made it to the door without looking back. 

***

The next day Bill found himself returning to the coffee shop, having done a little writing overnight. Scarcely a page but it was better than nothing. And he hadn't deleted it yet so he counted it as progress. 

He was walking along the street, the coffee shop's quaint little sign visible between the estate agents, solicitors, second hand stores and various other shops along the high street. 

As he drew closer he noticed a familiar face stepping rather clumsily from the back of a car and heading towards the coffee shop themselves. Once he was sure he wasn't seeing things from his lack of sleep- Bill had fallen asleep over one of his many sketchbooks in the early hours of the morning- he decided to catch up to them. 

"Well I'll be damned!" The person turned at the sound of his voice and the hand he had put on their shoulder, "the Trashmouth in the flesh, after all these years." 

It took several moments for recognition to spark in the other man's eyes and Bill wondered if that was because of the thickness of the lenses in the glasses he wore.  _ Some things never change.  _

"Christ!" He breathed, before enveloping the shorter man in a crushing bear hug, "if it isn't Stuttering Bill!" Normally, Bill would have cringed at the nickname, but coming from his old college friend turned relatively famous comedian, Richie Tozier, all it brought was a sense of nostalgic friendship. 

"What the hell are you doing here, man? How've you been?" Bill asked, the smile splitting his face a genuine one. 

"Oh fantastic," he said, grinning back, "got a couple gigs lined up in and around town over the next month or so. What about you? What are you doing now?" He asked as the two of them entered the coffee shop.

Bill was so caught up in his chat with Richie that he didn't notice two dark eyes look up from a pile of tax returns as he entered, nor did he feel them on him as he ordered and exchanged numbers with his old friend, promising to meet up for a drink when he wasn't keeping his driver waiting outside. 

Richie made some comment about how his driver hated to be kept waiting when they had places to be, clapped Bill on the back, and then sauntered back out the door. 

Taking his coffee from Mike after a brief chat, he returned to the table he had sat at yesterday and, feeling newly refreshed, began to write. Oddly enough he didn't utterly despise all of it, and by the time five o'clock rolled around and the coffee shop was beginning to empty, Bill had completed an entire chapter and was feeling decidedly more confident about reaching his deadline.  _ I just have to write a good ending.  _

He slid his laptop in to his bag and was on his way out when he noticed the man from yesterday was sitting a few tables away. His mind flashed back to the sketch he had done the night before and he quickly looked away, afraid of being caught staring so intensely.

"Excuse me?" Bill froze with his hand still holding the door open, then turned around and his breath caught in his throat. 

"C-cuh-can I help you?" Bill's incessant childhood stutter returned whenever he got nervous, and he felt a blush creep across his cheeks as he looked down at the slender hand on his arm. 

The man Bill liked to sketch gave a small smile and retracted his hand, “Sorry, you dropped this.” He held out the napkin Richie had scrawled his number on, Bill having left his phone at home in an attempt to minimise distractions.

“Oh, thanks.” 

“I’ll admit I wasn’t sure if I should have given it to you.” the stranger rubbed the back of his neck absently, “texting with Richie Tozier is not all it’s cracked up to be.” 

Bill was slightly taken aback at that, “You know Richie?” 

“Unfortunately.” his tone was dry but he wasn’t doing a good job of keeping an entirely straight face. At the confused look on Bill’s face, he elaborated, “what? You think the guy does his own tax returns?” 

“Oh so you’re his accountant?” 

“Yes. Doesn’t stop him from texting me with test material in the early hours of the morning. Seems to think if his jokes can make someone as boring as me crack a smile then they’re worth adding in to his shows. Not that he writes any of his own material, that is.” 

_ You’re not boring _ Bill found himself wanting to say, but didn’t for obvious reasons. Instead he settled for “I’ve never understood that particular stereotype.” 

He received only a shrug in response, “what about you? Any occupational stereotypes or hazards that put you in touch with Richie?” 

“I--” Bill stopped again, a little embarrassed to admit he was an amateur author, it was a lot less stable job compared to that of an accountant. So he started with the story of how he knew Richie, “I met him in college, always the life and soul of the party. Annoying as he is he’s virtually impossible to dislike. As for what I do, I’m attempting to finish writing a novel that’s been in the works for a while. Not much success recently though, inspiration’s a little hard to come by.” 

“A writer?” the question seemed to be asked with a genuine curiosity

“Not a very good one but I guess so. Why? Not what you expected an author to look like?” 

“It’s not that. Just you don’t seem to do an awful lot of writing while you’re here.” Now it was the stranger’s turn to blush. 

_ He’s been looking at me? Quick, say something to brush it off, _

“That would be the writer’s block. My worst nightmare.” There was an awkward silence as the incredibly flustered accountant tried to think of something to say, Bill swiftly changed the subject. “Sorry, I never caught your name?”

“Oh of course,” the man held out his hand, a gesture Bill found remarkably formal, but didn’t hesitate to take it, “Hi, I’m Stanley Uris. But you can call me Stan.” 

Bill briefly wondered if the offering of the nickname meant that they would be having more conversations and quietly wished it was Stan’s number in his hand. Not that he didn’t want to stay in touch with Richie, but he wouldn’t mind having Stan in his contacts either. 

“Pleasure. I’m Bill Denbrough. Well, technically William but most people call me Bill.” 

“I’ll be sure to look out for your name on the shelves, Mr Denbrough.” and with that Stanley Uris moved past Bill and disappeared through the door.

The abrupt nature of his departure caught Bill off guard. He stood in the doorway for a few moments, trying to make sense of it.  _ Maybe he had a train to catch and wanted to make a smooth exit. _ Bill had to admit his last words had been incredibly smooth. Still smiling at the thought of Stan reading something he’d written, Bill Denbrough headed home.

***

He had been home only an hour or so when he remembered Richie’s number in his pocket and decided to add him to his contacts so he didn’t lose his number again. He pulled out the napkin Stan had handed him and stared, as a second fell to the floor. He reached down to pick it up and smoothed both of them out on his coffee table. They were two different numbers. 

One was written in thick black marker pen and resembled a squiggle more than a phone number, Bill had to squint to make out the individual digits whereas the second number was written it what looked to be ink from a fountain pen, the cursive was neat and ever so slightly slanted, as if the writer was fond of writing in italics, or had calligraphy as a hobby. 

Understanding washed over Bill and he found himself grinning like a child who has just been shown the most basic of magic tricks. Bill thought again of Stanley,  _ Smooth indeed.  _

After a few painstaking minutes spent deciphering Richie’s number, Bill had added two new contacts to his phone. He text Richie first, 

**Hey Trashmouth,**

**Let me know when you want to go for that drink.**

**\- Bill**

He found himself far more concerned when it came to texting Stan. Did he start out with addressing the way in which Stan had given him his number? Or was a simple  _ Hi _ sufficient? He tried to come up with something witty that would help strike up a proper conversation but, just as it always did when he relied on it most, his ability to write in a way that was engaging had deserted him. 

**Hi**

He hit send before he’d registered the fact he hadn’t signed it and was holding down on the little blue message, fully intending to unsend it, when a reply came in.  _ That was fast. _

_ Who’s this?  _

**Slip your number to a lot of guys today, did you?**

_ Just the interesting writer types _

***

Bill’s deadline was mere days away by the time he next saw Stan in person. The two days Stan had taken out of his office had gone by all too quickly. They had established a fairly stable text connection though. After a week of constantly getting butterflies every time his phone pinged, Bill decided to bite the bullet. 

**_You busy tomorrow night?_ **

_ Not really, no. Why?  _

**_Fancy a drink?_ **

_ With you?  _

**_No, with Richie. I gave up on the writing thing to become his personal assistant._ **

Before Stan could reply, he sent another text, his nerves unable to take the sarcastic banter, 

**Yes with me. Is that okay?**

Although he’d never admit it, Bill’s heart was hammering in his chest as he waited anxiously for a reply, and he found himself biting at his nails, something he hadn’t done for at least a decade, when he was sixteen and pining over his latest crush. 

_ Sure. But if Richie does in fact show up, I’m out of there. _

**_Deal._ **

***

Stanley was uncharacteristically stressed as he waited for Bill to show up. He had gone through his whole wardrobe twice before deciding on a casual light blue shirt and black trousers. He had intentionally arrived at the bar fifteen minutes early but his nerves were beginning to surface in the way he was anxiously running his hands through his curls and tapping his fingers against his knees.  _ Calm down _ .  _ Bill suggested it. It wouldn’t make sense for him to stand you up.  _

He managed another ten minutes battling against his intrusive thoughts before his anxiety spiked for an entirely different reason. He hadn’t been stood up at all, walking over to him with a smile that was utterly dazzling, was Bill Denbrough. 

Stan had thought Bill was attractive when he had caught him staring that first day at the coffee shop but as he sat on the bar stool next to him, Stan found himself momentarily unable to tear his eyes away from his friend.  _ No,  _ he corrected himself,  _ you didn’t feel this way about someone who was simply a friend. _

“Hey,” Bill said, smiling wider, and Stan was seized by the thought his heart might give out. 

“Hi, how’s it going?” 

The barman, a man by the name of Ben, came over to take Bill’s order- a simple pint of beer- before Bill replied, “Alright. I might actually finish this book, you know, just need to find some inspiration for the ending. How are you though? I got the feeling from your texts that it’s been a long week at work.”

“No longer than any other.” Stan smiled, “so tell me, what compelled you to invite me out tonight?”

Bill took a sip of the pint Ben had deposited in front of him before he spoke again, 

“I just wanted to spend some time with you. I like talking to you Stan, you’re interesting. I want to get to know you. If that’s alright with you?”

“Of course.” 

Bill held up his glass, “To getting to know each other”.

Stan clinked his whiskey against Bill’s pint, the size difference between the glasses making it a little awkward, “to getting to know each other.” 

***

**_November 2020_ **

The package was waiting for Stanley when he got home from work. He collected it off the doorstep and put it to one side on the back of his armchair while he took his jacket off and hung it up ready for the following day. 

Then he opened the padded out envelope carefully, tipped it over ever so slightly and caught the book that fell from it in one hand. 

Putting the wrapping to one side, he sat down properly in the armchair and opened the book to it's first page. 

On the inside cover, written in what was now an incredibly familiar hand, were the words, 

**_Stan,_ **

**_Missing you immensely while away on my signing tour, but I wanted you to have this, the first copy of my first published book._ **

**_I couldn't have done this without you._ **

**_All my love,_ **

**_Bill x_ **

Stan ran his hand gently over the words, grateful tears pricking at his eyes, but he quickly blinked them back for fear they would smudge the message there. 

When his vision had cleared and he was able to read properly again, he moved on to the page opposite, and there in simple typed italics were the words that made Stan's heart melt like it had the first time he'd laid eyes on his now-boyfriend back in their favourite coffee shop; 

  
  
  


_ For Stan,  _

_ my inspiration _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
